


Redeemed From Fire By Fire

by asparkofgoodness



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dreams, Drinking, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Stars, T. S. Eliot References, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: It was viewing Earth from the moon, gazing at home while inhabiting the coveted other.  You discover how your gentle clouds and storm-tossed oceans appear through their otherworldly eyes; you learn the dips and curves of craters you have studied for years at a distance.  You stoop to drag a finger across the surface, marvel at moondust, look back at your footprints, proof that you were here once, though not for long: just long enough to leave your mark.When Aziraphale borrowed Crowley’s body, he left traces of love everywhere.  Crowley would find them, one by one, as winter unfolded its blanket over London.





	Redeemed From Fire By Fire

"The dove descending breaks the air  
With flame of incandescent terror  
Of which the tongues declare  
The one discharge from sin and error.  
The only hope, or else despair  
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre—  
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love."

\- T.S. Eliot, _Four Quartets_ , "Little Gidding"

It was viewing Earth from the moon, gazing at home while inhabiting the coveted other.You discover how your gentle clouds and storm-tossed oceans appear through their otherworldly eyes; you learn the dips and curves of craters you have studied for years at a distance.You stoop to drag a finger across the surface, marvel at moondust, look back at your footprints, proof that you were here once, though not for long: just long enough to leave your mark.

When Aziraphale borrowed Crowley’s body, he left traces of love everywhere.Crowley would find them, one by one, as winter unfolded its blanket over London.

First, the new freckles.Six thousand years in a body and you know every spot.These, Crowley thought as he squinted at his chest, definitely weren’t there before.His vessel was human, but it didn’t age, and it certainly didn’t change the way human bodies did.Narrowing his eyes further in concentration, he channeled energy to the area, as if healing a wound.The patch of small, pale brown flecks remained, stubbornly tattooed over his heart.For some reason, they aggravated him.How dare his body change without his say-so?How dare it refuse to bend to his will, as it always had before?With an irritated huff, he gestured his shirt back on, offending marks hidden by dark, silken fabric, but not forgotten.

Next, the tormenting dreams.Because Crowley believed he could dream, he could dream.All it took was a decision to do so and a little imagination to create a storyline, and off he went.When he was bored or drunkenly fixated, he’d fall asleep and wander the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or watch the kraken rise from the deep, and, from there, go wherever his unconscious mind swept him.It was like putting on a record knowing only the first song, and it had especially come in handy in the 19th-century.

Out of self-preservation, he never chose to begin with Aziraphale.Yes, he was Fallen, reforged in hellfire, tormented and sinful, but he refused to be a flagellant: he knew self-inflicted pain brought him no closer to the one he worshipped.It was not uncommon, however, for Aziraphale to interrupt his dreams, unbidden, appearing wherever Crowley happened to be just as he had done in reality for as long as they had been on Earth.If his reservoir of restraint wasn’t dry, he would wake himself at the first glimpse of blue-green eyes and white curls.He knew better than to indulge.And yet, some nights, he surrendered and allowed himself to linger in the angel’s company.Inevitably, lines would be crossed.He would drag himself out of dreaming, cursing himself for wishing warmth onto his undeserving, cold-blooded skin, knowing he had not been touched but feeling, still, the empty space of a hand withdrawn.

After their world narrowly missed becoming a battlefield, Crowley lost control.No longer could he choose to dream or not dream.He would lie down, turn off his consciousness, and find himself in Eden, sheltered under white wings, or in Rome, tempted to try oysters.Suddenly, he was at the mercy of a revisionist subconscious.They were dining at the Ritz, and, under the table, a manicured hand slid up his thigh.They were arguing in a convent, and, against the wall, soft lips pressed to his lips.They were in bed, and _fuck_ , he couldn’t wake up, and he wanted to, he really did, because the images sept through his pores like slow poison, searing his skin and leaving him sickly in the sunlight, flinching at the sight of the angel’s hands softly picking up a book or fork when they had undone him in dreams mere hours earlier.To these new habits of his treacherous mind, he was an unwilling victim; even when he swore off sleeping altogether, he found himself dozing on the bookshop sofa and waking, face flushed, body aching.From the next room over, Aziraphale heard him hissing obscenities, sounding furious and haunted, and peered around the corner just in time to see him whip a pillow at a stack of books and storm out of the shop.He stayed away for five days after that.

Then, the blinding light.When downward saunter escalated to a plummet into flaming sulphur, Crowley clung to what remained when the embers had faded: darkness.Forbidden from seeing Heaven’s golden rays again, he embraced the shadows, shading his eyes, cloaking his body, sharpening his tongue until sarcasm dripped easily from it.He told himself this was preferable, deserved, his choice (rather than his defense), where he belonged, and after six thousand years of repeating this, he had begun to believe it.After all, he could sense heat in pitch-black darkness.The night was tailor-made for sin; this was where the serpent of Eden belonged.If night also lent itself to contemplation, if only darkness made all the stunning stars visible to a lonely observer, well, those were coincidental benefits.

Given the light pollution, not many stars are visible when you sit on a tartan blanket in St. James’ Park at midnight, after closing down a restaurant, with a bottle of wine and a to-go container of macarons.At dinner, there had been a conversation about constellations, and somehow that had turned into this, the angel sitting primly upright, the demon stretched and leaning back on his elbows, not much space in between them.The wine and a minor miracle kept them warm in the chilly wind.

Crowley took a generous drink from the bottle, then passed it to Aziraphale as he stared skyward.Slurring his words a little, Aziraphale said, “‘m sure you can’t see much through those lenses.”

“I know where to look.”

“Still, just–“Fingers began to clumsily tug the glasses from his face.If wine hadn’t blurred the edges of the evening, he would have protested more; instead, he grimaced and glanced away, trying to ignore the nearness of the angel’s hand.“There,” and he heard the smile that bloomed on Aziraphale’s face before he saw it, “much better.”The glasses were deposited in his outstretched hand.

Refusing to acknowledge that the angel was right, he tipped his head back again and changed the subject.“That one’s going supernova soon,” he said quietly.

“Hm?Which?”

“Over to the right there.”Crowley knew the names of stars were foreign to Aziraphale, just as the words in the angel’s precious books were to him, so he didn’t bother naming it.Rolling his head to one shoulder, he watched Aziraphale pop the rest of a yellow macaron in his mouth and search the sky, brows knit in confusion.Crumbs stuck to his fingers, and his lips looked slightly stained from the blood-red Bordeaux.

A sideways glance and then the slow turn of Aziraphale’s face toward him shook Crowley from his daze, leaving him feeling, like always, a little ashamed to have been caught studying him.“You see the dipper,” he started, pushing himself up off his elbows and into Aziraphale’s orbit.“Look to its right.See those two close together?”His face hovered behind Aziraphale’s left shoulder, and he used a long, pointed finger to direct bright eyes toward the two stars.

“Ah, yes, I see them.”

“Too close.”At that, Aziraphale’s head turned slightly and those bright eyes flicked intensely to Crowley, who leaned back an inch in response.Yes, there is such a thing, Crowley thought, as too close, even in the hard-won quiet after the near-Apocalypse, even in the dark expanses of space.“Wine.”Aziraphale passed him the bottle, and he drank to fill the silence.

“Is that a problem, being close?If you’re stars?”

“For some, yeah.Depends on how you’re made.That one, on the left, it’s absorbing all sorts of…”He gestured absently, like one searching to translate a word from their native tongue to their companion’s.“…cosmic stuff from the other one.Taking it all in.Eventually, it gets compressed, and then, boom.Goes nuclear.”

A silence fell over them.If asked, Crowley could have told him all about taking everything you can – every bit of energy, every single laugh and touch and word, even the sharp ones – until you’re pinned under the weight of another’s energy, welcoming your destruction if it means you can have even more.The stars must choose the fiery explosion, believing it to be better than burning on alone.

“Raspberry.”The word, spoken with excitement, interrupted Crowley’s musings.“Give it a try,” and half a purple macaron entered his field of vision, held over Aziraphale’s shoulder.He accepted it without question, taking a small bite and handing the rest back, well aware that Aziraphale would want to savor the last piece himself.

“’s good.”

A contented hum of agreement from the angel, who was still looking up at the stars.“How do you know it’s going to explode?”

“Makes a noise.You could probably hear it, too, if you tried.Takes some effort.Lots of space to travel.”

“I’m afraid I’ve had far too much wine for a challenge like that, my dear.I trust you.”

Crowley laid back down on the blanket.“Keep sitting like that and your neck’ll be sore tomorrow,” he muttered, ignoring the fact that the angel could simply miracle away the pain.

“At least its matter will be reused, when it goes,” mumbled Aziraphale, not looking away from the star as he placated Crowley by lying down.“As Eliot wrote, ‘to make an end is to make a beginning…’”He recited the next few lines of the poem from memory as Crowley picked at the label on the wine bottle, listening.“‘…And any action is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat, or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.’”Aziraphale took a breath, bit his lip, and then said, “You never told me, you know.What it was like.”

“What?”

“Heaven.”

Sickeningly perfect, he thought.Baffling and ruthless.“You know better than me.”

“No, I mean when you were there as me.I told you about Hell, but you haven’t said a word about Heaven.”

“Right, the rubber duck.Genius.”He was stalling for time.Rage burned in the pit of his stomach when he recalled the sound of joy in Gabriel’s voice, the feel of rope around his wrists.How could he say _he interrupted you.He laughed.They were excited to watch you die._ Even worse, _he expected you to step in the fire at his command, to walk yourself to your destruction just because he told you to, as if you were his pet._ No, he couldn’t tell Aziraphale any of this.Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Spit fire at them.Another inch or two and they’d have been done for.See them again and I won’t aim to miss, I can tell you that much.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him, at first, amazed, and then, concerned at Crowley’s anger.“I’m sure that was enough to send the message.They should leave us alone for a while, I’d imagine, and when they do come back around, they’ll be my problem, not yours.”

Human eyes can’t see Alpha Centauri from Earth, but Crowley could make out its faint points of light, and he watched them flicker for a moment, listening to Aziraphale’s breath.“Ours,” he said quietly, rolling over onto his side to face Aziraphale, head propped up by his hand.“Our side.Our problems.”

A loving smile began to form on the angel’s face.“Yes, of course.Ours.”That word on Aziraphale’s lips made Crowley’s breath catch in his chest.

Long minutes dripped away in silence as Aziraphale watched the sky and Crowley watched Aziraphale; they passed the bottle back and forth without words, so practiced that it had become second nature by now.Eventually, Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze and whispered, “Penny for your thoughts.”

Because of the wine and the stars, because no one was listening in on them anymore, because that expression was exactly the kind of old-fashioned, intrusive, caring thing that Aziraphale would say, Crowley gave voice to his thoughts as they came to him, no filter.“It looked different than I remembered.Memories might be unreliable, of course.So long ago.But it all felt wrong.I’m supposed to want to be there, right?That’s the whole threat in Falling, can’t be in Paradise anymore, but all I could think about was getting back here…” _To you_ was the end of that sentence, but he stopped short, already feeling like he had said too much. 

Needing a reason to break eye contact, Crowley started to lift the bottle to his lips when Aziraphale’s hand, half on the bottle and half on his hand, made him pause.“It was terribly brave of you.I can’t even fathom how you did it, how you must have felt.”

“Well, couldn’t break character, could I?You’d have faced it nobly, kept a brave face.For all your fretting, when you know you’re right, you’re fearless, even to a fault sometimes.Even when you are actually wrong but won’t admit it,” he said with a slight grin.“So I just did what you’d have done.Save for the fire-spitting, of course.That was all me.”

Aziraphale, wide-eyed and adoring, looked at Crowley like he had just voiced a secret that Aziraphale had only ever thought to himself.Crowley opened his mouth to break the tension, make a joke, and found, instead, Aziraphale’s lips pressed to his.After one frozen second, his eyes fell closed: behind his eyelids, an explosion of light.

It was a lightning strike without the pain.A sudden burst of brightness, a tingle of electricity humming at his fingertips and dancing on each burnt-ember strand of hair.As he instinctively kissed Aziraphale back, he could feel light rushing through him from the earth and up into the night sky, leaving him breathless, awe-struck.He squeezed his eyes shut against the glow and felt the angel’s warm hand settle on the side of his face.When Aziraphale eventually pulled back, Crowley opened his eyes, absurdly expecting to see the rays of noontime sunlight and finding darkness, still, and the stars and the angel’s soft, loving smile. 

His confusion over the origin of that light leapt into the back of his mind as Aziraphale said, “You give me too much credit, I’m afraid.I have been too fearful to do that for centuries, even after I realized I was right in wanting to.”

A sharp exhale, a silent pause while Crowley shouldered the weight of those words, and then the explosion of thousands of years of self-restraint and hunger as Crowley pinned Aziraphale to the blanket in a desperate, all-consuming kiss.

“Young lady, this is a first edition.It is over 150 years old!You cannot handle it so carelessly, and you certainly do not want to buy it for your literature course.”As any good angel should, Aziraphale tried his best to be polite to the misguided human, but his last two words were clearly laced with disapproval.“I assure you, Waterstones has a budget edition perfectly suitable to your needs.”

Laughing to himself, Crowley watched the interaction from across the bookshop, gauging the proper point at which to intervene.When Aziraphale attempted to take the book back and the girl pulled it closer to her chest, Crowley sauntered over.Without stopping, he flashed her a grin, hissed “it’s not for sale” as he gently tugged the book from her hands, and walked on toward its proper shelf.

As he carefully placed _A Tale of Two Cities_ back in its spot, he ran his hand along the dusty shelf, watching specks float up and into the few rays of afternoon sunshine that penetrated the shop’s cloudy windows.He thought of Paris, wondering who was on strike these days, if any groups needed an extra nudging to join the picket lines.Years ago, he had spent some time getting the metro workers fired up, and it had paid off better than he could’ve imagined.Not only were thousands of travelers just a bit more aggravated and just a bit more awful to their spouses and friends and coworkers, but the workers liked the idea so much, they just kept doing it, long after he had left.Another spark of brilliance for which he would never be commended.

Warmth pressed against his back, then a hand settled on his waist.“She finally left, thank Heaven.”Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his neck, just below his ear.“You even knew exactly where it belongs.Thank you.”

Blinking, Crowley willed himself to relax.It had been over a week since their first kiss.They had moved very eagerly beyond that into many other new and intimate activities, and yet these small displays of affection that seemed to come so naturally to the angel still completely wrecked him every time.Against all impulse, he had spent thousands of years of smothering the embers of his hope that Aziraphale could ever be more than a friend – if he was even that lucky – just to wake one morning and find himself engulfed in an uncontrollable wildfire.Getting used to this would take some time.He swallowed and leaned back against Aziraphale’s body.“Feels like it’s just about closing time to me,” and with a snap and a lazy wave of his hand, he made it so.

“Yes, quite,” agreed the angel.“After that unpleasantness, I need a good cup of tea and some Chopin.”Another kiss, then he was gone, off to put the kettle on while Crowley rested his forehead against the bookshelf and collected himself.He still felt strangely warm despite Aziraphale’s absence; this was becoming a troublesome pattern.Since that night under the stars, the overwhelming flashes of light had not returned, but he felt this glow of energy, sometimes, when Aziraphale held his hand or touched his cheek, as if he were lying in the sun with his eyes shaded.In the moment, he couldn’t be bothered by it, but later, when he had a chance to reflect on the sensation, it unnerved him.

Flopping down on the sofa, he stretched his long legs out, feet resting on the arm, and shoved a pillow under his head.A few minutes later, a nocturne floated delicately in the air and Aziraphale appeared before him, mug in hand.With an amused eye roll, he asked “May I?” and gestured at the end of the sofa.Crowley sighed but dropped his legs to the side and off the couch, turning on his side and creating room for Aziraphale to sit.“Stretch back out again,” the angel said when he was settled.Crowley did as he was told and was rewarded with a contented “there you are” and a hand on his knee, fingers pressing slightly with the fluttering piano notes.

This, Crowley thought as he closed his eyes, made it all worth it.And not just worth it, but necessary: all of the missteps and arguments, the declined offers, the centuries with only one or two brief chance meetings, the risks taken to protect him, the return to Heaven.With this logic, even his Fall must have been necessary to bring them here, to this closeness and peace.Maybe he had Fallen so he could drag himself out of the pit and volunteer to be swept back up to face Heaven’s divine judgment a second time.Only, the second time, their words meant nothing to him.The second time, the rebellion was wholly intentional.The second time, the flames hadn’t hurt, not at all.It wasn’t that he had nothing to lose that time.No, if he had failed, Aziraphale would have been destroyed, and the emptiness of a universe without him had still been reverberating in Crowley’s chest when he had stepped into that column of fire.The old excuses and side-stepped truths died away: he had Fallen and fallen again and chosen it, and would, over and over, in half a heartbeat, if it meant he could have this.

A glow hovered into his darkness, and his eyes flew open.“There!”

Aziraphale jumped, nearly spilling his tea all over both of them.“What?” he asked, scanning the room, alarmed.

“No, it’s– Sorry, calm down, it’s nothing, just– You didn’t see a light, just then?”Crowley was sitting up now, legs still stretched across Aziraphale’s lap.

“A light?”

“Yeah, bright, felt like it was right here in the room.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, looked concernedly at Crowley.“I didn’t see anything.”

Running a hand through his hair, Crowley looked around for anything that could have caused the light, but found nothing out of the ordinary.“It’s happened before.In the park.And a few nights ago.It’s like someone’s shining a torch in my eyes when they’re closed, only it doesn’t hurt.It’s just bright and _weird_ and… I don’t get it.Have you felt different, _off,_ since it all almost went up in ineffable flames?”

Aziraphale shook his head.“If anything, I’ve felt better.Knowing it’s all sorted, for now, at least, is such a relief.I’m not sure I understand it all, but I’m terribly glad it’s over.”He reached out and took Crowley’s hand.“What else has been troubling you?”

“Dreams,” he said quickly, not pausing to explain, “and, oh, yeah, these are new.”With his free hand, he pulled the neckline of his shirt over to reveal the cluster of new and offensive marks.“6,000 years only changing when I told it to, and now it’s gone rogue.”

With a small smile, Aziraphale said sweetly, “I’ve always liked your freckles.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed.“This is your doing?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t touch your corporation.Well,” he grinned a little and squeezed Crowley’s hand, “I suppose that’s an inaccurate statement, given recent events.What I mean to say is I wouldn’t change you.That’s absurd.”

The wheels were turning in Crowley’s mind.“When you do that thing where you sense love.What does it feel like?”

Aziraphale looked away, reaching for the right words to explain.“Like… love.Warm.Bright.Overwhelming, but pleasant.The feeling varies depending on how strong the love is.It can be almost blinding, if it’s strong enough.”

As Aziraphale spoke, Crowley withdrew his hand and pulled his knees to his chest, backing up against the arm of the sofa.“That’s it.The light, the warmth.It was you.”

With a rapid turn of his head, Aziraphale stared into his eyes.“What do you mean?”

“You did this, to me.When we swapped bodies.”He rapidly escalated from astonished to angry, jumping off the couch and standing in front of Aziraphale.“You must have.That’s when it all started.You had no right.I haven’t slept properly in weeks, and this light _thing_ ,” he said as he gestured at his head, “is bloody distracting and not normal, not for me.I’m a demon.I’m not meant to ‘sense love.’You’ve got to undo it.”

Calmly, Aziraphale said, “I can’t undo something if I don’t know how I did it in the first place.It does sound like you could be experiencing side effects of trading corporeal forms, but, I promise, I did nothing to you purposefully.I wouldn’t.”

“Side effects?” Crowley spat.“Come on.You must’ve done something.Think.”

“My dear, I was a bit busy swaggering around Hell convincing your bosses I was you and you’d become terrifyingly invincible.I didn’t have time to contemplate your freckles.” 

(If pressed, Aziraphale would have to admit this was a half-lie.In the early morning hours, after the body swap, after Crowley had left him alone in his cold flat, he had stood in front of the mirror, calming his nerves by practicing different facial expressions until they looked familiar to him on Crowley’s face.He may have also studied the exposed areas of Crowley’s skin in a way he never could have with Crowley watching him; he may have even briefly rolled up a sleeve, undone a button or two before listening to the voice in his head that told him it was a violation of trust, somehow, even if Crowley never found out.The half-truth part of his statement lay in the fact that, to an admirer of something perfect, alterations are inconceivable.)

As always, Crowley believed him, but he wasn’t any happier for it.It all felt unfair, somehow, and wrong: the light, the loss of control.“Well, what is it, then?Just what I get for loaning my body to an angel?”

“Possibly.”Aziraphale took a sip of his tea, thinking.“We are beings of love and light.I suppose it makes sense that, after taking over a body unaccustomed to such a presence, trace amounts of that energy remains behind.You mentioned dreams.Are they pleasant ones?”

“Uh,” Crowley began, and then he became suddenly very interested in what was happening out the window, hiding his flushed face.“Yeah, well, er, they’re not, uh, unpleasant.But that’s not the point.”He turned and strode back over to the couch.“I’m not trying to have them, am I?They’re just happening to me.And if this is from trading bodies, then you should have side effects, too.Demonic ones.”He looked expectantly down at Aziraphale.

“I don’t.”

“No nightmares?”

“I don’t sleep.You know that.”

“No urges to cause chaos, piss off people, torment customers?”

“No.Well, other than that young lady earlier, but that impulse was entirely justifiable.”

“No feelings of general, I don’t know, corruption, sinfulness?”

Aziraphale smirked up at him.“Oh, yes, but for actions I’ve been very much complicit in and desiring of.”

Crowley scowled, but there was a softness around the corners of his mouth that he couldn’t disguise.“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”He pushed his glasses up into his hair and rubbed at his eyes.“So, what, you came out of all of that without a scratch and I’m permanently enlightened?” he asked, drawing out the last word sarcastically.

“It may not be permanent.With time, I’d expect it will fade.”

He dismissed the idea with an unhappy “hmm,” shoulders drooping.

Aziraphale set his mug down and stood, walking the few steps to Crowley and placing his hands on the demon’s chest over the lapels of his black jacket.Crowley looked curiously into his eyes.“It’s the lack of control that bothers you the most, isn’t it?”

Crowley’s mouth tightened.“Just want to go back to normal.”

“I know, and I’m sure you will soon, most likely.If not, you’ll adjust.”

“Easy for you to say.Nothing’s changed for you,” he said bitterly.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.“Nothing’s changed for me?”He tilted his head slightly and placed a hand on Crowley’s cheek.“Now, you know that’s not true.All of this is new to me.”With a smile, he pressed a quick kiss to Crowley’s lips.“In fact, I’m not entirely sure that what you’re experiencing isn’t tied to this.To us, I mean.”He glanced down at his hands on Crowley’s chest, a little nervous to continue.“I’ve been thinking that the switch shouldn’t have worked so well, that maybe it did because of our, well, connection, and now, the symptoms you’re describing sound like… As I said, I did nothing on purpose, but,” he shrugged, “it’s possible traces of me, of how I see you, stayed behind.”He paused, then continued quickly.“I’m not sure, of course.Practically nothing has been written on the subject, and it’s not like I can ask the other angels–“

“Apologize,” Crowley interrupted, a smile spreading over his face as he began to process Aziraphale’s theory.

“Apologize?”

“You ruined a perfectly demonic body with your light and goodness. You owe me an apology.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, skeptical and amused.“I won’t apologize.It’s not my fault.”

“Oh yes, you will.”Crowley stepped slightly forward, closing the space between their bodies.

“I will not. I refuse to apologize for loving you, not to you or anyone else,” said Aziraphale, voice quiet but firm.

A slow blink as he absorbed this, and then a low, strangled noise: fingers pressed to Aziraphale’s neck and jaw and pulled him forward into a passionate kiss.Brightness found him again, and Crowley thought, if this glowing warmth is from him – a reminder that he once inhabited the body I call home, that he willingly walked in my darkness and felt it as light, that he knows my skin and sinful shadows and somehow loves me, anyway – then I hope it doesn’t fade.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the fourth of T.S. Eliot's [_Four Quartets_](http://www.davidgorman.com/4quartets/4-gidding.htm), one of my absolute favorite poems.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please leave a kudos or comment and make my day. You can also follow me on Tumblr [here as thetunewillcome](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thetunewillcome) for more Good Omens love.


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